Her Husband's Harlot (44 page)

It
was then that she heard it.

At
first, she thought she had imagined the faint sound. But, no, there it was
again. A thumping noise, from somewhere above stairs.

A
shot rang, shrill and piercing.

She
did not know that she had moved until she found herself racing up the steps.

"Did
you get him?"

"Aye.
Bleedin' like a stuck pig, 'e is." The man nudged the fallen figure with a
dirt-crusted boot. "You think there's more of 'em, sir?"

"Likely
so, Bertie. I'd wager he's one of Kent's men, so the rest are not far behind.
Best we finish up here quickly. Tie up the body and bring it downstairs. We'll
toss him to the tides before we leave."

"Yes,
sir."

With
impotent rage, Nicholas watched as the man called Bertie trussed the fallen
figure. William—for he was sure it was his groom William—moaned as his arms and
legs were bound. Nicholas strained forward; ropes bit into his wrists and
ankles, keeping him prisoner in the chair. He looked on helplessly as Bertie
dragged the groom out of the room. A crimson trail marked his departure.

"No
use struggling, Lord Harteford," James Gordon said, advancing upon him in
an agile stride. His blue eyes danced with menacing mirth. "You can't move
anymore than that poor sod."

"Release
him, Gordon. It's me you want, not him."

"True,
but we can't have loose ends trailing about." Gordon stopped a foot away,
so close that Nicholas could see the freckles on the younger man's skin. But
there was not a trace of youthful innocence on that smooth face now. No stammer
in the confident drawl. Gordon's red hair gleamed in the lamp light, as did the
pistol he held in his hands. "You have caused me quite a bit of trouble, my
lord."

"I
would cause you a great deal more," Nicholas growled.

Gordon
laughed, a high boyish sound. "I don't think so. But before I put an end
to your interfering ways, you must satisfy my curiosity: how did you know it
was me who masterminded the thefts?"

Keep
him talking. Buy yourself time. Kent will pick up the trail and come.

"I
didn't, at first. I thought it was Bragg like everyone else." Nicholas saw
the smugness enter Gordon's smile and added, "A clever ploy on your part."

"Yes,"
Gordon said, "it was clever. To think, I was afraid the device was too
transparent. After all,
Isaac Bragg
a criminal genius? My step-brother
hadn't the brains to organize a party at the tavern, let alone the systematic
robbing of every merchant on the dock."

"So
you used him. He was your stool pigeon."

"My
insurance, yes, should my plans be uncovered. Isaac was very good at following
orders. At stirring up trouble with the workers. At appearing a suspicious,
trouble-making sort. The little act worked quite well at the other warehouses.
I used other men, of course, not just Isaac."

"You
used different aliases, different disguises," Nicholas said, "so no
one would recognize you from one company to the next. Once you infiltrated a
warehouse, you imported your own men, had them hired on your recommendation.
And the stealing started, only so little at a time that it would take months to
uncover the losses. By that time, you had moved on. Faked an illness, or, in
this case, your own death."

"I
am impressed," Gordon said. "Tell me, how did you know it was me?"

"There
was no crutch next to your supposed corpse. Why would a life-long cripple be
without his walking stick?" Nicholas paused. He thought he saw a movement
from the door, a flicker of a shadow. Or was it just a trick of the light? He
needed to stall Gordon. "When I realized this, I had the body exhumed and
re-examined by the doctor. Even with the decay, it was obvious the limbs were equally
developed on both sides. There was no evidence whatsoever of a limp."

"Very
good indeed." Gordon's white teeth gleamed in appreciation. "You
alerted Kent to this fact, and he began to question all the merchants along the
dock about an employee with an affliction of some kind."

"Exactly.
And there emerged the pattern—always a young man, timid, self-effacing, with a
physical disfigurement: a blinded eye, a lame arm, a limp. Someone you felt
pity for, whom you would never suspect capable of nefarious deeds."

"So
you have flushed me out," Gordon said. "But, to be fair, I know a bit
about you, too. Remember my words to you that night in St. Giles?"

Nicholas
felt an icy twist in his gut. "It was you who shot me that night."

"Isaac,
the great fool, led you straight to my quarters. Another reason he deserved to
die." Gordon's eyes narrowed. "I considered killing you that night,
but you're worth more to me alive than dead. After all, it's not every nob who's
born in the gutter and ends up a marquess, is it?" Gordon cocked his head.
"How much are your secrets worth to you, my lord?"

Keep
him distracted. Let him talk.
"How
did you find out about Grimes?"

"The
fact that you stabbed him in the heart, you mean?" Gordon's teeth flashed
again. "Let's just say I have it from a reliable source. But to be
certain, I sent those little notes to gauge your reaction. To see if the
Marquess of Harteford could be shaken up, if he truly had something to hide.
And I must say, my lord, my test was quite effective: for anyone who knew to
look, you wore your guilt as obviously as a priest wears his collar. I knew
then that my information was true."

"What
do you want, Gordon?" Nicholas demanded. "Money?"

The
other man rolled his eyes. "But of course. It's always about money. The
question is how much." He wagged his pistol. "How much would it be
worth for a marquess to keep his ignoble past a secret?"

"I'd
go to jail for murder before I'd hand a farthing over to you," Nicholas
snarled.

For
some reason, this made Gordon smile. "Ah, but there are things worse than
murder, are there not, my lord? Let me illustrate with a little tale. We all
had our heroes growing up, and Benjamin Grimes happened to be one of mine. He
was a legend among the flash-house crowd. Cleaned out half of London—and I don't
mean their chimneys. A master thief he was, known for his love of violence,
gin, and, ah yes, one unfortunate vice." Gordon shook his head with mock
regret. "Well, even the great Achilles had his weakness. Who is to judge
that for Grimes it was young boys?"

Nicholas
felt his stomach give a greasy lunge.

Don't
let him get to you. Stay focused. Calm.

"It
was said Grimes enjoyed a game of bury of the bone." Gordon peered into his
face; Nicholas cursed the betraying trickle of sweat that slid down his
forehead. "How many times did he play it with you, my lord? Or make you
play it with the other boys?"

It's
over. Grimes can't hurt you.

"Did
you come to beg for it, like a dog that will do anything for a few scraps from
the table?"

"Goddamn
you!" With mindless rage, Nicholas flung himself at Gordon. He toppled to
the floor, unbalanced by the chair he'd forgotten he was bound to. The side of
his head slammed against the wooden boards. Before he could regain his senses,
a boot crushed into his jaw, pinning him to the ground. He welcomed the pain,
the rusty-sweet surge inside his mouth. It alerted him, brought him back to the
present.

"Unwise,
my lord." Gordon ground his boot, and black dots danced before Nicholas'
eyes. "I caution you against further retaliation. It will get you nowhere."

Gordon
was right. Nicholas needed to regroup. Think.

The
boot lifted. "From this little show, I have obviously hit a nerve. Ergo,
my silence on the matter of your relations with Grimes should fetch a pretty
price. Unless you want it bandied about London that you were buggered by the
man?"

You
were a child, Nicholas. You are not blame.
Like a beacon, Helena's words flashed in his mind.
You are the finest
man I have ever known.
He saw her sweet smile, the one that lit all the
corners of his soul. He felt the darkness retreating, banished by the golden
fire of her eyes.
The only man I could ever love.

His
breathing steadied. His strength returned.

Gordon's
voice came from above him. "As time is of essence, we will dispense with
the formalities. You have a choice before you, my lord, so listen carefully.
You may live a hero, or die a bastard who whored for his bread and murdered his
master."

"The
price?" Nicholas said evenly.

"Ten
thousand pounds, my lord. A pittance against your estate, but I am not a greedy
man. We will leave together this night, upon the barge I keep docked nearby. On
the morrow, you will issue me a bank note. Once the funds are in my pocket, I
will release you. You may tell one and all that you attempted to apprehend me,
but were overcome by villainous means. You will be made a hero for your brave
efforts."

Not
bloody likely. I'll be floating face-down in the Thames the moment you get your
money.

"If
I refuse?" Nicholas asked.

The
boot descended out of nowhere, slamming Nicholas' head back to the ground. His
vision splintered into bright shards.

"You
will die tonight, slowly and with a great deal of pain. Tomorrow, a story will
be printed in all the papers. It will fuel drawing room gossip for decades to
come. Your lovely marchioness will not be able to show her face again. Why, the
shame of it might kill her on the spot. That is, if something else doesn't get to
her first."

Fury
exploded, clearing Nicholas' head. He thrashed with renewed strength. "Leave
her out of this, you bastard! She has nothing—"

He gagged
as a pistol jammed into his windpipe. The metal barrel bored deeper; he could
feel the edge of it cutting into his skin. Lungs burning, he struggled for air,
wheezing when the pressure was suddenly released.

Gordon
smiled down at him.

"So,
my lord, which will it be? Life or a slow, painful death?"

Calmness
settled over Helena as she watched the man called Gordon cut the ropes loose.
Nicholas stood, wobbling a little as his hands remained bound behind his back.
She saw the trickle of blood on her husband's temple, and her hands tightened
around her weapon. Her heart beat in steadfast rhythm as she readied herself in
the shadows beside the doorway. Strangely enough, her earlier fear had vanished
at the moment she'd witnessed Will being dragged through the hallway. Upon
reaching the first floor, she'd hidden herself into one of the offices, flattening
herself against the wall at the sound of voices. From her vantage point, she
had seen a hulking brute of a man pass by, tugging a length of rope behind him and
Will ...

She
would not weaken now, for his sake. For Nicholas. For all of them. Gordon's man
might return at any moment, and she had to act while there was yet an
advantage. Footsteps sounded within the office; she pressed herself more
tightly to the wall. Nicholas would emerge first, if Gordon meant to have a
pistol pointed at him. The footfalls grew closer, the floor boards vibrating
beneath her feet. She held her reticule-bludger over her head.

Nicholas
stepped into the hallway. She had no time to see his expression for Gordon
followed next. She swung her arms with all her might. There was a shout as her
weapon connected, not with the top of his head as she'd planned, but with his
arm. The pistol skidded onto the floor and into the shadows. Gordon appeared
stunned, but unharmed. For a moment, all seemed to be happening in slowed time.
She tried to move, but found her feet turned to stone. In the next instant, everything
roared to life. Gordon fell upon her, his hands closing over her throat.

"You
little bitch," he hissed.

She
clawed at his hands, but he held firm, choking her of air. Her vision clouded,
her arms weakening in their struggle. She felt herself falling into lightness
... but when she landed, it was with painful impact against the floor. Gasping
for breath, she came to her knees in time to see Nicholas, arms still bound,
charging into Gordon like an enraged bull. The two men bounced off the walls of
the corridor and crashed through the doorway into the office. She tried to
follow, but tripped over something. The book, escaped from her reticule. Hauling
herself up off the floor, she scooped it up and raced into the office.

She
stopped short at the sight of overturned chairs and scattered papers. The men were
in the center of the room, circling each other. Nicholas, she saw, had a cut
above his right eye, which was beginning to swell purple as a grape. Though his
arms were immobilized, his stance was aggressive, ferocious even. Gordon
gestured at her husband with his fists, a cocky grin on his face.

She
swallowed when she saw the glint of a blade in the villain's hand.

How
dare he take such unscrupulous advantage!

She
let the book fly from her hands. The heavy volume sailed through the air, just
as Gordon began to advance upon Nicholas. As if on instinct, Gordon's head
turned. A look of surprise flashed across his face. But it was too late. The
leather corner caught him in the forehead; with a grunt, he lost his balance,
stumbling backward. Nicholas pounced upon him immediately, kicking out at the
other man's arm. The knife arced through the air and clattered out of sight. Gordon
cursed as he warded off Nicholas' barrage of kicks and body blows. Helena bit
her lip; how long could Nicholas persist at such a disadvantage?